


Rarity

by helena_s_renn



Category: Def Leppard, Music RPF
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Light BDSM, M/M, Orgasm Control, Paddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 12:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17467631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helena_s_renn/pseuds/helena_s_renn
Summary: Two different years and two different scenes. Back to the very beginning of a BDSM arrangement, and then how they progressed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Both chapters are Steve's point of view, which is something of a... rarity.

-1979

He needs this. I don't know why, but since the beginning, before we even knew there was a name for it, he's had to be taken apart and taken down.

It started when I smacked his arse one day as we were pissing about, a lackadaisical footie match to kill some time. He turned red, his back went ramrod straight and then he hunched away without a word. I knew that walk. Boner. 

What the hell? At the time, I didn't think much of it. After all, it could happen to anyone, at any time. 

When next some of us were having a kick-about, it came to mind again. Dunno why. We were on the same side, playing three again three. On a whim, I decided to see if he'd have the same reaction a second time. I followed him down the imaginary sideline, keeping behind him and to the side to guard his flank. He scored. And I slapped his bum. He whipped around and his chin tipped up defiantly for a half-second. Then, like before, a sudden flush spread over his cheekbones like wings, down his neck and lower. Suspecting, I looked down. Yep. He sloped away again. Joe rolled his eyes at me and shook his head. Then I realized I was half-hard, too. Sav turned around behind Joe's back and grabbed himself so I could see it, then retreated quicker yet. I have no doubt he wanked in the loo.

 

A week later, I made him blow me in the alley behind the poshest jewelry store on the high street. When I say "made", I mean to say, it was understood between us that the idea of me using any force was all for show. More like, he made me make him do it. Only, I wanted to. 

It was two in the morning; we were drunk. To this day, I have no idea how we got there. He was down on his knees and I had one fist clenched in his hair, curly and coarse as it was back then, choking him. Between the gagging sounds, he was moaning much too loud and I kept shushing him, though it did no good. His mouth was so hot and wet; I could feel his tongue, his taste buds. Then he'd choke again and the back of his throat would try to push me out. 

Drunk but not enough for it to affect my performance, I sputtered, "Don't you dare spit, don't you dare..." 

He was moving more rhythmically than I was responsible for. That was wanking, that was, but not only that, somehow I knew he was doing it to... question my authority. He pulled back, pulled in air, and gasped, "I wanna come..." 

"Put your dick away," I barked. "Don't touch it!" Where that came from, I don't know, but it was the right thing to say. He groaned and sucked me in again. That he'd never done this before was obvious. It was stop-start, never more than half-way down. Whenever I got close, he'd gag. I found myself directing him by his hair, using the other hand to slap his face if I felt teeth. People walked by intermittently at either end of the alley. Anyone could have seen. Hell, maybe they did. 

Eventually, balls covered in his drool, I couldn't hold back any longer. This was a bloke, this was my mate, I should be a horrified, self-flagellating little pouf. No, I can't even tell you the thrill of letting it go into his contracting throat, tears running from his eyes when I looked down, pulling his hair. 

When my knees were steady again, I yanked him to his feet, shoved him against the nearest wall and rubbed at his helpless erection through his pants. "Look at this silly boy, crying, his little dick got hard but he can't control himself yet, can he? He's gonna wet his pants in warm, sticky come..." which he did, one eye half-open and I'd swear, laughing at me while moaning, "No, no..."


	2. Chapter 2

-1988

Nearly a decade later now it's much more elaborate, isn't it? We have proper rooms, beds, toys. Safe words, though they've not been used often. This little thing to keep us sane between shows, every few nights when the need and the boredom get the best of us. Why bother to deny? 

He's as much as hog-tied. On all fours, thighs cuffed, a spreader bar holding them so wide they tremble intermittently. Visible parts of his body shine in the low light. The sweaty pheromones and musk are thick enough to snort, rolling off him. I've told him to keep his hands where I can see them and he will, because if he doesn't obey I won't release him in any sense of the word from the five rings holding him in check till morning. 

We don't use whips. I won't scar that perfect skin. Paddles though, we both get off on the reminder of school-days humiliation, and at the moment his backside is glowing red. Walking around him along three sides of the bed, I deliver each smack lovingly, hard enough to make ripples on those cheeks like the pebble dropped in a pond. 

His other cheeks are wet. Neither of us fear emotional outbursts any longer, not when we're under. He has but to say the word and it's over, but he won't. Two more to go. Smack! The wooden handle of the paddle, my own wood, one in each hand, he turns his face around to watch my fingers grip each. It's me who is ready to break. I want to just drop it, get behind him and ride him till the sun rises but we agreed on a number and I am just as bound by it as he is in his torture device. 

He loves it, no matter how he howls. I can't understand the concept of wanting blueballs except where it applies to him, as it's always been his thing. The last ringing slap of wood on flesh with the paddle is almost anticlimactic. Obligation met, I'm on him, in him, making him screech. Even after this many years he's still nearly as tight as the first time I put aside my doubts and fears and, eyes tightly closed, let him slide down onto me. 

Tonight, I'm taking what is mine as rough, as deep, as unsatisfying for him as I can make it, because he needs it like that. Below, I know, steel rings hold his balls strangled and unable to pull up. More rings bite into the overfull cavernosa, possibly enough to bruise. He can't even leak. From this angle, he can't see me, either, lost in his own head. Touching his arse draws hisses, curses, it's still mottled red and pink with the rest of his back above in a lattice work of skin and muscle and two divits low down, his mess of hair above that. Back when he was 18 and we were both basically virgins to this, I couldn't believe this lush, sylph-like creature would even look at me, much less need me. In his eyes, I'm so much more than anything I'd be without a guitar hanging off me or his love to swallow me whole. 

The volcanic forces build, the power and thrust, all motion and gasping through clenched teeth. "Let me hear you!" he presses out unexpectedly, as he'd been ordered to make no sounds but cries of pain or pleasure. For that, I'll have to make him pay. For that, he doesn't get the orgasm control he asked for, I'm already reaching around to tap each ring's hidden catch till they fall from him amidst his moans of protest and defeat. He's so goddamned hard, yet his silky dick-skin wrapped inside my palm is as addictive as any foreign substance I can swallow.

"Wanna hear me scream when I come, do you...?" I'm breathless, the surge of power and my laboring body culminating into a massive upheaval. It turns me inside out, the offerings I'll make. 

"Yeah... always... say my name!" 

Not till he's squealing the pitchy EEEEE part of my name do I let myself return the favour. Chances are, he won't hear me anyway. The receptors in my hand perceive sticky heat. I'm as broken as he is, letting go, filling him up. It's rough and it's raw. Only for him. I refuse to father a child, but I'll fill him with my seed and eat it out of him as I slowly release him from the remaining bonds and help him relax into a position where he won't cramp. 

We don't usually sleep together, as in actual sleep. He mumbles a lot and I'm too bony for comfort; it takes someone with a lot more padding to not be bothered by ribs and knees and elbows. 

We'll manage. 

 

Fin.


End file.
